"it's easy to be a bad writer, but it's hard to wake up each day and devote a chunk of your life to bad writing."

Friday, September 11, 2009

BILL STEVENS

bill stevensI met Bill Stevens on a sidewalkon a sidewalk in Mexicohe was arguing with a senorabout the price of his tacosclaiming he’d been charged morebecause he was an Americanclaiming he’d been ripped offand most likely he had beenfor he was like usanother gringo trying to makeour way through the dusty streets of ol’ Mexicowithout getting the shit kicked out of usor harassed by the military policewhen Bill Stevens gave up his argumentand walked off swearing to his vanI said to him, “hey man, anychance we could get a ride with you?”Bill Stevens laughed a might laughand said, “of couse. where are you going?”I told him we were heading southand he said, “you can have a rideas far south as I’m goingor until I die, whichever comes first, ha ha.”we realized then that he was not like usBill Stevens was from upstate New Yorkhe was in his mid fiftiesand he had terminal cancerso instead of rotting away in a hospitalhe spent his last dollars on a vanand a sleeping baghad driven southwest from New Yorkand on down into Mexico“to enjoy myself until the bandidosrob me and kill me and throw me offa cliff to rot in the jungle.”Bill Stevens had a very directway with wordsand he had this certain way about himthis doomed man living out his lifeas an excited child until he found deathor death found himso we got in his vanand he drilled along down the highwayslooking out at the horizonand pointing to anything there wasfields of grassplots of vegetablesmountain ranges or city lightsand he’d say, “JEEESSUSSS, would youlook at that? We don’t have mountainslike those up in America! look at those fields!that must be cabbage! we don’t havecabbage fields like that up therein America! JEEESSUSSS!”he drove into the nightripping along mountain ridgesand long winding uphill dragshe kept his footstomped on the acceleratorand he’d make wild passescars, vans, tractor trailer truckshe didn’t car what it wasas long as it was in his wayhe’d just go straight around itdeath-kissing passesthat made us close our eyesand wait to see if we made it throughwhile he tore alonghellbent on getting towherever he was goingas fast as he could he would laughand shout to my friend Gerardwho was sitting in the front seat“I bet you shit your pants, Gerard! I bet you justSHIT YOUR PANTS! Ahhh ha ha ha!”he'd roar with laughter and then say“me? I’ve lived my life. but you, Gerard? I betyou just SHIT YOUR PANTS!"in the night we arrived in Puerto Vallartaand he pulled over to the side of the main dragI woke up and opened my eyesto throngs of tourists and travelerspretty girls in tiny skirtsand vendors selling just about everythingBill Stevens looked aroundfor a moment and said, “all right, boys.I think this is what you were probablylooking for. some good looking girlsand some bars to drink at. it was goodto meet you and have a good timeon your trip. this here, this isn’t for me.this isn’t my style. too many peopleand too many tourists, but you young bucks,I’m sure you’ll do just fine here.”we popped out onto the streetsaid our goodbyes to Bill Stevensand watched his van rattle offdown the main dragmaybe to a quiet campgroundor a whorehouseor on and on through the nightor over a rocky cliff into eternity

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About Me

Jackson Warfield was born in a small town in New Hampshire on a dead end road. He has traveled widely and worked a variety of jobs, from digging ditches to walking dogs. He writes for entertainment, his own and others.